


Call Me Supreme Leader

by Lilander



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Biting, Conflicted Kylo Ren, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Hair-pulling, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Light Bondage, Naked Female Clothed Male, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Size Difference, Submissive Rey (Star Wars), Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Top Kylo Ren, Under-negotiated Kink, Virgin Ben Solo, insecure kylo ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilander/pseuds/Lilander
Summary: He can’t look at her.“You’re afraid you’ll hurt me, aren’t you? If we keep going.”He doesn’t answer. He’s half-hard, lurching wildly between that sorrowful, confessional kiss and the need to rip off that stupid white tunic and force her to her knees.The cushion squeaks as she sits. He feels the conflict in her, the shame, the desire, the compassion. The fear. Her fingers graze the hairs on his forearm, coaxing them to stand on end.“Ben,” she whispers. “Maybe it’s alright to hurt me—a little.”





	Call Me Supreme Leader

He can’t look at her.

“You’re afraid you’ll hurt me, aren’t you? If we keep going.”

He doesn’t answer. After that kiss, his lips sort of—itch. He’s half-hard, lurching wildly between that sorrowful, confessional kiss and the need to rip off that stupid white tunic and force her to her knees.

The cushion squeaks as she sits. Her folded hands are almost professional, like she’s pitching a strategy at Hux’s briefing, but he feels the conflict in her, the shame, the desire, the compassion. The fear. Her fingers graze the hairs on his forearm, coaxing them to stand on end. “Ben,” she whispers. “Maybe it’s alright to hurt me—a little.”

He stops breathing. She can’t possibly be saying what he thinks she’s saying. She has no idea—

“I see your dreams.”

No. He’s halfway to the door before she stops him with Force draped on his shoulder like a hand, and she’s apologizing, _sorry, Ben, sorry, I didn’t mean_ —

She’s right behind him.

He closes his eyes, but as soon as he does all he can feel is her warmth behind him, all he can smell is her. She smells dusty, like a hangar, and it shouldn’t be this goddamn sexy. So he opens his eyes again and studies the  floor, but she’s probably seen that dream, so he looks at the ceiling, but there’s the dream with her on top, so he closes his eyes again.

 “You’re spying on my dreams,” he says.

“Not on purpose,” she says, though he knows that, of course, she’s probably gone in there looking for Order secrets. “I know you see mine too.”

He swallows. He does see hers. No Resistance secrets, but—other things. Soft things, like that kiss. He's not surprised she's dreaming of him. The bond started this need, and it's gotten unbearable since she joined him on the _Finalizer_ as his prisoner, or apprentice, or confidante, or whatever the hell she is. His mother sent her here to gain his trust, bring him back to the Light. Or assassinate him. He knows that, she knows he knows, but they keep going because everything between them has always been impossible.

“Tell me what you've seen.”

Challenged directly, she can only blush. He hates it, this blushing.

 “An interrogation table,” she says, and he freezes. “Ropes.” Her voice cants upward, like her throat muscles have gotten tight. “Teeth. A whip. Bruises.” That last is breathy.

His fingers, a few centimeters shy of the door panel, curl into a fist. She laughs, seeing it, but it’s anxious laughter. She can’t see what the words did to the front of his body, but he knows she feels it through the bond, and she can hear it in his voice.

“You should be horrified,” he says.

“Should I?”

God, she’s so innocent sometimes. “I do these things to prisoners. Beat them.”

She doesn’t like that. She never does. She likes to pretend he’s her pet, dangerous-looking but gentle, no, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, her Ben. He’s never done anything sexual in an interrogation, as much as Snoke wanted him to; he could never manage it. But he likes the violence and he likes the power, and she’s got to understand that before he does something he can’t take back.

“Rey,” he says, and he feels her breath hitch at whatever she hears there. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

That’s not entirely true, and that’s why he can’t look at her.

“Ben,” she says in a halting voice. “We can’t just do nothing. I’m going mad—” she stops. Her hand ghosts down the back of his tunic, embarrassed, nervous, and he feels his erection deflate.

“Stop that,” he orders. Her hand freezes.

Against his better judgment he turns around and takes her wrist in his fingers. It’s _so_ damn small considering what she can do with it when she gets a weapon in her hands. He still can’t look at her face. “The blushing, like you’re some teenager. I’ve seen you kill.”

The effect on her is immediate. He feels her arousal spark across the bond, he feels the warmth between her legs. It hits him like a punch in the gut, this proof that she's as tempted by the dark as he is by the light. He might win this, in the end.

Her wrist feels so hot under the pads of his fingers. She’s right. They can’t do nothing. He’ll stop if things go too far—and she’s strong. She’s a killer, his scavenger. She likes pain. He feels her pulse racing under his thumb, he feels her stomach muscles clenching.

He moves so she’s between him and the doorway, and, guiding her with the softest grip on her wrist, he begins backing her toward the durasteel door.

“I like you fearless,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes on her wrist as he strokes the vein there with his thumb.

“Then why are you afraid to look me in the eye?” she demands.

Because he’s never been fearless. But he doesn’t say that, he disciplines himself, he moves his eyes upward, letting his gaze catch on her lips, her nose, the little hairs that  grow between her eyebrows because she doesn’t give a damn about plucking or anything ridiculous like that, and then he’s looking into her pupils. She licks her lips.

“I’ll be gentle,” he says, and he means it, because he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything. He’s so close that his own breath reflects off her face back toward his nose.

The skin of her lower lip sticks to her upper lip, pulling apart gradually to reveal the hollow of her mouth like some mystical cave opening at his command.

“Fuck gentle.”

He breaks. Her back’s against the door before he even realizes he’s moved, and his mouth is on hers, kissing her like he wanted to kiss her that first time. It’s everything he wants to give, it’s aggressive and possessive and controlling and jealous and everything that everyone’s been telling him his whole fucking life he’s not supposed to be, and she’s so wet he can smell it. He can fucking smell it.

Her wrist is still wrapped in his fingers but it’s anything but soft now, he’s crushing the bones against the door so hard she moans in—pain, but not just pain. He hopes to god these doors aren’t soundproof because he wants everyone on this goddamn ship to know he’s doing this. He wants the stormtroopers outside to get hard listening that sound, thinking about what the Supreme Leader is doing to this woman to make her feel this good.

His other hand is at her throat. It’s not squeezing, it’s just holding her, feeling the power of her under his palm. He could crush her windpipe, he could break her spine—he won’t, but he could, and she knows he could, and she loves this. She loves the danger of it. It’s like battle. It’s like flying some kind of insane mission, a hundredth of a millisecond from death, and her adrenaline’s pumping and she’s so, so wet.

He uses the Force to pin both her wrists behind her back against the door, freeing his hand to do something he’s wanted to do since he first saw her with her hair down, getting hauled out of that escape pod on his master’s ship: he pulls out the ties holding her lowest bun in place, groaning at the whimper of pain, and he wrenches her head backward with his fingers tangled at her hair.

For a moment he just admires the length of her neck, disappearing into the hand still clasped around it, long and lithe with her head pulled back. And then he can’t help it, he bites her. Right at the place where her neck joins her shoulder. He bites so hard she cries out, and then it turns into a moan.

He stops himself before he draws blood, not wanting to go too far, contenting himself with gripping her skin hard between his teeth and lapping at it with his tongue, wanting to raise a bruise. He wants to mark her. She wants to be marked. She wants it so badly she’s pushing her head even farther back, giving him more skin.

“Ben,” she pants. “Harder.”

He groans into her shoulder and bites down until he tastes blood, and she makes a sound he can’t describe and tilts her hips forward into his, straining against the Force hold that keeps her arms behind her back. When he rolls his eyes upward, he sees only white below her mostly-closed eyelids. Her lips are parted, like they are when she meditates, and this is a kind of meditation, for both of them.

And the bond. Good gods, the bond is electric around them. He feels everything she feels, and she feels everything he feels, even the non-sensual things, even the thrill of his power-trip. There’s no surge of Force-energy—this is pure sex. Dark sex, but sex.

He wants her naked. He can do more than feel her, now, since they’re getting snippets of one another's thoughts. She wants him to pull her clothes off her. But no, he wants to do things his way, and he has other ideas. He releases the hold that pinned her arms behind her and tugs at her tunic.

“Strip.”

Her tongue flecks across her lip, pearlescent, and he feels her stab of embarrassment. She wasn’t expecting this, she didn’t see this in his dreams. He answers it with his own shame. Is this too much? She was obviously right, she likes pain, but this, maybe, this petty need to dominate her, might disgust her. He shouldn’t want this, this power.

She’s thinking the same thing. She shouldn’t want this, being in his power. She’s thinking about who he is, what he’s done. But she’s also thinking about the scar bisecting his face, the scar she gave him, and how much she wants to touch it. She’s embarrassed, but she likes this.

And he watches her master the blush, because he fucking _told_ her to master it, and his cock’s so hard he’s leaking now. He likes her fearless. He likes her strong. So she looks him in the eye as she untucks her little wrap from her belt and unwinds it. When she’s done, she holds it out to him, defiant, like she’s daring him to use it.

Ropes. A low grunt escapes him when he realizes what she’s got in mind. Wadding up the long, thin strip of fabric, he swallows and nods curtly for her to continue.

She doesn’t make it cute, she doesn’t draw things out. She pulls off her tunic in one motion, revealing a plain off-white breastband. He stops her for a moment with a raised hand, leaning forward to lick the trickle of blood leaking from the bite wound on her neck, not touching her with anything but his tongue even though he can feel how much she wants to be touched. A tiny drop of blood got on her tunic.

She reaches behind her and does something that makes him glad he asked her to do this, because it looks complicated, and then she’s standing in leggings and boots, naked from the waist up. His hand goes up again, commanding her to stop, and he thrills at how fearless she looks, challenging him to look at her.

Her breasts aren’t large, but he doesn’t need that. They’re brown in the middle, not pink like he’d thought they’d be. Her skin, so brown on her shoulders and arms, whitens abruptly below the place where her tunic would begin, so her nipples and the area around them stand out like little oases. They’re perfect. She has plenty of scars whose stories he’ll ask about later. He can see the sweep of her ribs and almost reaches out to touch them, to rub a thumb across that brown skin, but he stops himself.

He walks around her, examining her, and makes a motion for her to continue. She’s biting her lip and he feels some nervousness, but she’s controlling it. Yeah, she likes this. She wasn’t expecting to like it, because she’s strong, but she likes obeying him.

No, he realizes. It’s not the obedience. She likes knowing that _he_ needs this. That she has all the power here, because she can just stand there and reduce him to a trembling wreck, which is how he’s starting to feel. He refuses to touch himself. As soon as she touches him he’s going to lose it, and if they don’t move this along he’s going to lose it anyway.

Maybe she senses this, because she kicks off her boots and pulls off her leggings and her underwear at the same time and suddenly she’s naked in the middle of the sitting room in his quarters, waiting for his next command, looking him in the eye, making little movements as she shudders under the brush of his attention. And he is very attentive. The curve of her ass is almost architectural, like the bulge of a command bridge against a ship’s hull.

In his fantasies he always stretches this moment out, savoring the conquest. In reality he’s on her, fully-clothed and pressing her into his body. He’s glad he took his gloves off but he hopes to the gods he gets to do this again because he desperately wants to tease those nipples with his fingers covered in black leather. He strokes her back with almost comic gentleness and licks at the blood from her bite before returning to kiss her softly, sloppily, letting her taste her own blood on his tongue.

It’s that last thought that drives him into total overwhelm. He moans her name. If she’s trying to seduce him to the Light, she’s close. Through the bond he presses into her own pleasure at hearing him lose even more control. _She’s_ hoping the guards outside hear him, what she’s doing to him. Knowing that just makes him moan harder, kneading his fingers into the beautiful curve of her ass.

She’s so small. He wants to envelop her, he wants to be as big as possible around her.

“Kneel for me,” he says, a little breathlessly.

She kneels without hesitating, pressing her knees into the unforgiving durasteel. Her eyes flick to the stretch of fabric at his crotch, like she’s hoping to be asked to suck him. His jaw clenches at the thought—later. He knows what he wants now. He needs to do something to slow himself down or he’s not going to make it.

With the Force he tugs her arms upward and feels her breath hitch when he summons her wrap and loops it tightly around her wrists. “Lie back,” he says, and he pretends to ignore her as he ties the other end of the wrap to one of the bolted-down legs of the low table. It’s just enough resistance to keep her stretched out, but he’ll still be able to turn her over and fuck her from behind if he wants to.

He’s pretty sure he wants to. But not yet.

Finally, he looks at her, and almost comes in his pants. Naked, cold on the cold durasteel floor, stretched out so her breasts are a little flattened and the lines of her ribs are even more prominent, she’s amazing. And she knows it. When he walks toward her she doesn’t raise her head, she just meets his eyes like she’s towering over him with a lightsaber instead of lying bound and naked on his floor as he looms over her, fully clothed.

“You look so tall from here,” she says, blushing even as she says it, because it’s obvious she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Her thoughts tumble across the bond: she’s obsessed with how much bigger he is.

There are still so many parts of her he hasn’t touched.

With the toe of one boot, he pushes an ankle outward, spreading her legs. The smell of her is instantaneous, and he stares dumbfounded at the way the light glints of the wetness between her thighs. She’s making some kind of soft sound, panting, and he feels fucking invincible.

“You want me to touch you.”

“Yes,” she breathes. Her eyes have closed. She’s thinking this all seems pretty damned experienced when she knows, through the bond, that he’s never had sex before. The sex is new to him, true. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was nervous about that part. But issuing quiet commands, expecting to be obeyed—this is as comfortable as he gets. He’s tortured plenty of people, interrogated plenty of people, and for years he’s spent all day giving orders and menacing people into obedience. Sex is all bound up with that, for him. He tried to tell her so.

“Tell me where you want me to touch you, Rey.”

“Everywhere.”

No. He’s not going to do that. She’s aching, and he’s aching, but he likes that he can do this to her. He wants her to suffer a little longer, as punishment for manipulating him like this and also because he wants to see how wet she’ll get and how much he can make her beg. She must’ve seen that, too, in his dream.

He positions his feet between her legs and props himself over her, push-up position, and then he slowly, carefully, lowers himself so his body doesn’t quite touch hers. He holds himself there, kissing her eyes where they’ve fluttered shut and planting soft, appreciative kisses on her lips, not even giving her his tongue, not letting her take his lip into her teeth like she wants to. She starts to wrap her legs around him.

“No,” he orders. “Be still, Rey.”

She shudders at the sound of her name. “Ben, I want—”

“Call me Supreme Leader.”

She’s so aroused that he can’t tell if it’s anger or amusement that flickers across the bond. Probably both. He enjoys power, it’s no secret, and he wants this naked woman, this powerful, fearless, naked woman, bound on his floor and soaking wet and begging him to fuck her, to acknowledge that he rules the galaxy.

“Ben—”

He lowers his knees to support himself while he lifts one hand and delicately circles her breast with his thumb. It’s so bumpy, the little brown circles around the nipple. He hadn’t expected that. He likes the texture. He loves the smell of her, this close.

She moans at the contact, and in the middle of her moan he fists a handful of her hair and pulls so hard the noise transforms into a clipped scream.

“If you want me to touch you,” he says against her lips, “call me. Supreme Leader.”

She shivers.

“I could make you beg me,” he says softly, letting his hair brush against her nose while he speaks into the corner of her mouth. “Or you could be a good girl.”

He’s not sure about that last thing. If it’s okay to say those things. Hell, he’s not sure if it’s okay to do any of what he’s just done, or if this is one more relic of his completely fucked-up adolescence and adulthood.

But she whines _,_ and she opens her mouth under his.

“Supreme Leader,” she breathes against his lips, and for a second he’s terrified he’s going to come, seeing how wet her lips are as they fall open with the words. He rewards her with a kiss, much less gentle, much closer to what she wants, hoping that she doesn’t take the clacking of teeth as a sign of his inexperience, which it definitely is. But she groans when he rolls the flesh of her bottom lip between his teeth and presses hard until he tastes blood. He moves his hand from his hair to her chest and slowly, finally strokes his thumb softly over one nipple. She whimpers into his mouth.

“Good,” he says reverently against her mouth, plucking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Good girl.” A shudder passes through her and she murmurs a soft _Ben,_ like she’s determined to have the last word. She likes it better with just his thumb, he feels. She likes quick, firm strokes from underneath. But it’s the praise that really does it for her, the soft way he tells her _good._

“Good girl. Tell me what you want.”

He doesn’t need the Force to know what she’s thinking—he can see it on her face. She shouldn’t like that, it’s demeaning, but holy shit she likes it when he tells her she’s a good girl. This girl, with all this power, loves it when he demeans her and it’s almost more than he can fucking take.

“I want—you.”

No, that’s not good enough. She’s drawing her ankles back together almost shyly, so that her thighs are touching his knees where he kneels between her legs. With his boot he kicks her legs apart again.

He bites her lower lip and gives her hair a warning tug. “What did I tell you about blushing?”

“Ben, please, you know what I want, I—”

“Say it.”

She answers with a glare, but she’s panting and arching her body up to his, trying to close the distance between the front of his tunic and her naked breasts, so the glare loses its effect.

Delicately, he moves his head down and lowers a kiss on one nipple. “Say it,” he says again. To coax her along, he shifts one knee up, using it pry her thighs open but not pressing it against the wet warmth between her legs like she wants him too.

“Fuck me,” she says. The obscenity, so uncharacteristic, makes him grunt. He lowers his head to her chest, hiding his slackjawed expression by kissing all the way down her breastbone in a way that he imagines is what most girls think of, soft and romantic, savoring every centimeter of skin. But his girl, his tiny, powerful girl, his killer of a girl, his girl doesn’t want romantic. He wouldn’t be surprised if she gives up the game soon and uses the Force to break her bonds and flip him over. He wouldn’t object if she did. It’s always a battle between them—but he’ll push her as far as he wants to, because he can.

He pinches the nipple, hard. She gasps.

“Fuck me, what?” he prompts, directing the question to the mound of her left breast.

“Fuck me, Supreme Leader,” she whines. She actually whines, she wants it so bad, and he’s using all his self-control not to grind his cock into her hips because if he does he’ll come.

“Good girl,” he says, and he’s moved his head down so he can roll one of those glorious brown nipples into his mouth. She makes little squeaking sounds and turns her head like she’s trying to use her own pinned arms as a gag. It’s an improvement, at least: now she’s not embarrassed because he mentioned sex, she’s embarrassed by the shocks of pleasure she feels when he calls her _good girl._

And he’s doing this to her. He wants to fucking bottle this.

Above him her voice has tapered off into an apparently random series of swearwords and _Ben_ and _please._

He doesn’t like that she’s hiding her face. “Look at me,” he orders.

She obeys, and when she does, he pushes himself off her, using his nails to scratch down her stomach as he does, and kneels between her legs.

Now comes the part where he has no idea what he’s doing. He scoots back so that he can bend down and take her thigh in his hand and kiss his way up the wetness that’s smeared halfway to her knees. It tastes strong, earthy, not pleasant but not unpleasant, and as he does it she’s panting even harder.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says against her skin. She twists her hips upward and makes a sound, and he nips at the soft skin there, warning her to be still.

“I’m going to fuck you," he says again into her thigh. "But first I want to make you come." She seems to understand the question there, because her defenses drop and she assaults his mind with a series of images that draw a groan from him, a visual and tactile map to that spot, a wealth of memories of her fingers searching, rubbing. He follows the map, first with his fingers, and then when a high-pitched half-sob tells him he’s hit the right spot, his tongue.

She bucks upward against him, and he presses one hand on her pelvis to keep her still and moves the other to her thigh, gently massaging the wet skin. He starts moving his tongue experimentally, grateful for the technicality of it since it takes the edge off his arousal and lets his aching cock soften against the fabric of his pants. She keeps bucking almost frantically and whispering his name.

“What do you call me?” he asks, enjoying the way a thin filament of wetness stretches from her clit to his lower lip. He’s filthy, his tunic sleeves smell irredeemably of pussy.

She doesn’t even resist before she moans his title. He rewards her by sliding one knuckle of his index finger into her. She calls him Supreme Leader again, appreciatively this time. He consults the memories she’d given him as he teases her by moving the knuckle in and out. There’s a thing she can do with her fingers, in the right position, a spot she can barely reach. Curiously, he pulls his finger out and rams two in. She cries out, but not in pain, and then he crooks his fingers and that’s it, she’s gasping and bucking through it and half-speaking half-moaning _Supreme Leader_ , and he’s making involuntary sounds against the wetness of her until she whimpers, spent and oversensitive.

He kisses her clit and doesn’t remove his fingers right away, because he feels her relax onto them, feels her sigh when he gently moves them in and out.

He can barely speak, his arousal back at peak intensity as he looks at her red, beaten pussy, but he manages a breathy _good girl._ She whimpers.

Then he reaches out and grabs her waist, so small that his hands could almost encircle it, and flips her onto her stomach. The sight of her ass, red from contact with the floor and soaking from the pooled wetness, makes him groan, and he hitches up his tunic and undoes the buttons on his pants, freeing himself as fast as he can.

He doesn’t dare stroke himself, and he doesn’t need to; he’s fully hard as soon as he comes out. He slides his middle finger into her, swirling it around, and when he pulls it out of her, slick and wet, he grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her head up, forcing his finger between her lips so she can taste herself. Obediently, too content to complain, she licks her own juices off him.

“Have you ever tasted yourself before?” he asks, pulling the finger out and smearing spit and girl-cum over her cheek as he lets her lower her head.

“Yes,” she says, and manages not to blush. His cock twitches at that, and he strokes her wet opening more. He taps at her oversensitive clit, guiding her up onto her knees, head forced down and arms pinned above her head by the makeshift rope. From this angle her ass looks perfect and her waist looks tiny, and that beautiful, swollen, red mound looks so good he can’t help but lean forward and lick it. She clenches, but doesn’t make a sound.

He wants this, but he’s nervous. She’s never done this before. Isn’t it supposed to hurt, the first time? Isn’t there something that breaks and bleeds? He likes blood, but he wants to push into her and fuck her as hard as he can, and he’s not going to do that if it hurts her.

She senses it. “It won’t hurt,” she says. The laziness has disappeared and she’s anxious again, excited.

“How do you know?”

She doesn’t respond, but images flash across the bond. Some kind of rounded-off length of pipe, about an inch and a half in diameter, that she found at a scavenging site and cleaned up and smoothed out at the end. She used it every night, sweating and moaning alone, getting as deep as she could.

“Fuck,” he breathes. She giggles—she actually _giggles_ at him—and he slaps her ass hard. She grunts, but pleasure arcs across the bond, and he admires the reddening skin.

Interesting. Excellent. He’d like to have her flailing and whining across his lap, naked just like this, him fully clothed, just like this. Maybe in his office. Maybe in the briefing room near the command bridge of the _Finalizer,_ with its huge holotable perfect for fucking.

But not now. He can’t wait. He forces three fingers in, enjoying her surprised squeak, and pulls them out fast, using the liquid to slick his cock. His cock's bigger than that pipe, but she wants to take it, and she's going to take it however he wants her to.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says through clenched teeth. “Do you want that?”

He doesn’t need to remind her this time. “Yes, yes, fuck, yes, Supreme Leader,” she pants. She’s arching back toward him, exposing her raw pussy even more.

He stretches out a hand, pressing his fingers into the soft skin at the small of her back, just beside the spine, using it to steady himself as he lines up. He breathes hard as he dips into her, taking some of his wetness to ease his way in. She’s so, so wet, and looking at the size of her, and the size of him, he knows she’s going to be so tight and so sweet. He’s not going to last long.

He orders her to say please, and she responds brilliantly, almost sobbing with her need. Then, all at once, and not at all gentle, he pushes in until he hits something solid at the back of her. His mouth hangs open at the tightness of her and he feels drool down his chin.

She screams—it’s a lot. But she’s right, it doesn’t hurt. The two of them both pant for a few seconds, and he’s gripping her waist hard enough to bruise. She grinds against him and lets out another soft please, and he’s moving.

He doesn’t take it slow and he doesn’t stop to worry if he’s hurting her, because he feels that, yes, he is hurting her, and he’s also feeling how much she fucking loves it. She’s riding the pain and the pleasure and it’s so good for her she’s practically sobbing with pleasure.

He’s so, so close, and when he feels himself on the edge he yanks her hair back, pulling her against the bonds around her wrist, and she groans out _please, fuck, yes, Supreme Leader, yes,_ and it’s over, and he’s shuddering as he empties himself into her, and he allows her to lower herself down to the floor, and he falls over her back.

“Good girl,” he says, and she sort of hums her approval, wanting to say something sarcastic but too pleased and well-used to manage. He slides out as he softens, feeling her adjust her thighs almost regretfully to accommodate the emptiness. When he’s out, he briefly dips a finger into her and pulls it out, covered in cum, and brings it to her mouth. She sucks on it as he moves his finger in and out, and his cock twitches despite his pleased exhaustion as she relishes the taste of him mingled with the taste of her.

He pins her with his weight. She likes that. He’s so, so big. She’ll be sore, but that’s alright, she wants to be marked.

“What do you say?” he asks in a husky voice, kissing her ear because it’s the nearest piece of flesh to his lips when he collapsed.

She lets out a shuddering breath and closes her eyes, utterly unembarrassed and relieved and—he shivers to feel it through the bond—affectionate. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?”

She sighs, lazy and spent, and the skin of her cheek tighten as she grins. “Thank you, Ben.”

The sound of that name, the feelings through the bond, break through whatever dark impulses have been guiding him, and he turns her over, wrapping her up in his arms like she’s wanted him to do, feeling her so small in his grip, and kissing her. She’s still bound at the wrists, but she bends her knees and tries to draw herself up within the circle of his arms, and the kiss he gives her is every bit as gentle and vulnerable as that first one.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you're writing really slow-burn Reylo and you need to write this instead. No apologies:-) This is my first smut fic, so for realsies I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
